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Show Anting Alone Page 250 was so absorbed in fiddling autistically with the "brooch" Spikey'd given her that she didn't even see him leave. "Have you seen Dr. Abraham around?" Avoiding bona-fide faculty members in deference to his stomach lining, Sam grabbed onto the lapels of any TA's who crossed his path in the halls and asked this question loudly and firmly. As usual when being asked to speak about something besides the Spenserian stanza, the TA's just half-focused their eyes in some random direction and slackened their jaws. They dribbled saliva on Sam's shoes until he released them and they could float on to their next class. They were no help in Sam's search for his old man. Back again, wandering these depressing cinderbrick halls after such a fun vacation in the real world, Sam found himself wondering, "How the fuck did I ever come to wind up among such people?" Well, he seemed to recall one afternoon not long ago when he was lounging around the living room back in Salt Lake, an as-yet unpublished author letting farts and watching the light come through his mom's blond drapes and waiting for the letter from Playboy Enterprises that was going to make him rich and famous. He'd sent them a poem, 300 lines of dactylic dimeter in strict rhyme - something similar in appearance to that lousy Shel Silverstein doggerel that Hefner had been pusblishing lately, but a thousand times superior, so how could they reject it? Sam was waiting for the folks out in Hollywood to call with an offer for the film rights. He'd |